


Queen, Dancing and Wine from the End of the World.

by DianaSolaris



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (This can be read as romo too but it really depends what you want to get from it!), Dancing, Fluff, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 15:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DianaSolaris/pseuds/DianaSolaris
Summary: “Is it supposed to be smoking?” Aziraphale asked with a note of concern, staring at the bottle of wine in the center of the table.“It was bottled right before the world went head-over-kettle for a little while. Anything could happen.” Crowley put his chin on the table, staring down what he’d dubbed the Apocalypse Wine. “I bet it tastes awful,” he said with a grin.





	Queen, Dancing and Wine from the End of the World.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_needless_litany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/gifts).



                It had been twenty years since the plan to bring the world to an end had come down in both metaphorical and literal flames, and Crowley was in fine, fine form. Sure, some things hadn’t quite gone to plan. He was still on leave from work – the type of leave where even asking when he might get his job back resulted in fire hissing from his mobile phone – and slowing the Internet to a crawl to irritate and anger hundreds and thousands of humans at once wasn’t nearly so entertaining when it didn’t actually add to his score.

                However, the upside was, Aziraphale had offered him a room above his bookshop. As much as the angel bothered him sometimes (fastidiousness might have been next to godliness, but as far as Crowley was concerned, it just seemed like personal hell) it was nice to at least have a drinking buddy. And today was the _day._

“Is it supposed to be smoking?” Aziraphale asked with a note of concern, staring at the bottle of wine in the center of the table.

                “It was bottled right before the world went head-over-kettle for a little while. _Anything_ could happen.” Crowley put his chin on the table, staring down what he’d dubbed the Apocalypse Wine. “I bet it tastes awful,” he said with a grin.

                “Nonsense. I’m sure it’s lovely.”

                “It’ll blow our heads off.”

                “Do you have to be so _graphic?_ ”

                “Comes with the territory.” Crowley wielded the corkscrew with a flourish, and began uncorking the wine.

                Aziraphale stifled a laugh. “Doing it the old-fashioned way, I see.”

                “You want me to snap my fingers and ruin all the fun?”

                “You’re _growing._ ”

                Crowley pulled a face. “Don’t insult me. I can appreciate a bottle of good wine just as much as you.”

                “Where did this even come from?”

                “Pollution had it hiding in one of the oil tankers he downed a while ago. Handed it to me as a present. Or a way to tell me to bugger off. One of the two.” Crowley finally got the cork loose, and the smoke coming from the tip coagulated into the shape of a skull before dissipating. “…Well, here’s to adventure.”

                “If you’re going to make me drink that, I get to play my music,” Azi sniffed.

                “Please not Rachmaninoff again. That’s all I ask.”

                “You said please, so I’ll be good. It’ll be modern.”

                Crowley conjured two glasses and began to pour the wine – then hesitated. “I don’t like the way you said modern.”

                “Why not?” Azi said sweetly from the other room. “Have I ever done anything to make you not trust me? I’m an _angel,_ Crowley.”

                “Yes! Exactly!”

                “It’ll be fine.”

                Crowley sat down, picked up his glass of wine and sniffed at it appreciatively as the music started to play. It wasn’t bad, if kind of familiar… The violin track in particular.

                Azi reappeared with a smug smirk that seemed very out of place on his angelic face. Then it clicked.

                “Oh you SMUG BASTARD! No! No, this is _all kinds_ of wrong!”

                “Bohemian Rhapsody sounds gorgeous with violins. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

                “If there’s no Freddie, it’s not Queen.”

                “It’s a good song regardless.”

                “Irregardless,” Crowley said, and cackled as Aziraphale groaned in almost physical pain, “it’s _not_ Queen.”

                “I thought you’d like it.”

                Crowley just took a sip of wine, scowling. “It… could be worse. Drink your wine.”

                Azi sniffed at it cautiously. “This won’t turn me into a demon, will it?”

                “Oh, you freakin’ _ponce.”_

                “Alright, alright, I’m drinking! …It kind of tastes like mead. With a touch of tar, and is that arsenic?”

                “Whatever it is, I like.” Crowley slurped down half his glass, then licked at the rim with a poke of his forked tongue. “I wonder what would happen if you put this music in my car.”

                “Didn’t that get wrecked?”

                “What kind of demon would I be if I hadn’t gotten my hands on a new one?” Crowley blustered, then sighed. “Yes.” Being fired sucked. At least it hadn’t been fired out of a cannon.

                As if Aziraphale could read his thoughts, a gentle hand landed on Crowley’s shoulder. “We’ll go buy you a car. About time, I think.”

                “Can we steal it?”

                “No.”

                “Can I use money from misadventure and crime?”

                “…Only if you don’t tell me.”

                Crowley grinned. Then he got to his feet, bopping his head to the beat. “This ain’t so bad after getting used to it. Want to learn some of that jazz you avoided so careful back in the  20s?”

                “Oh god, with all that hip grinding?”

                “Compared to dubstep, it’s practically angelic.”

                Aziraphale dusted off his argyle sweater-vest, then offered up his hands with a prim expression. “If needs must.”

                He laughed, then took Azi’s hands in his own. They were always cold, no matter how long Azi held them by the fire – not the frosty kind of cold that came from chill or winter, but a delicate, crystal kind of cold. They felt like mist in Crowley’s hellfire hands. “So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye,” he sang along to the string instruments transforming Queen into something new, “So you think you can love me and leave me to die,”

                Azi span under Crowley’s arm with a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before.”

                “It takes a very particular kind of music.”

                By the morning, the wine was gone, the music had ended, and Crowley found himself watching the dawn with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Azi was asleep behind him – not that most angels needed to sleep, but apparently it felt good from time to time.

                Twenty years.

                “Well,” he said to the rising sun, still feeling the trace of Aziraphale’s cold hands in his own, the stumble of his feet against Crowley’s, the rhythm of Freddie Mercury on his lips, “here’s to at least another twenty before the next disaster.” And quietly, under his breath, where only the Chessmaster above could hear it – hopefully – _Another twenty, or twenty thousand, here with my best and only friend. Please._

The sun didn’t answer. But that was okay. God moved in mysterious ways.


End file.
